The wind pushes like it knows I should turn back. But the breeze don’t need money. And it don't have to worry about a roof over its head. In the bushes there's an encampment. On mornings like this it whispers give up.
Head on a pillow and clothes on the floor I sweat and shiver, something is wrong. I want someone to call, to come save me, but the woman who used to won’t and the one that will is too far away. This is my future, drool going cold on the sheets, muscles stiffening. I pass out hoping I wake up. I need to make things right.
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